Full Circle
by wregular
Summary: When disaster strikes, sometimes you just have to come full circle. Starring the cast of Regular Show (copyright JG Quintel, Cartoon Network, etc.), and the author's OC, Yates.
1. Chapter 1

Rigby was asleep within minutes, but Mordecai wasn't so lucky. He tossed and turned half the night, unusually annoyed by his roommate's gentle snoring. Even more frustrating than that was the look of bliss on his friend's face. Rigby had been out with Eileen for the best date of his life - admittedly this was also the only date of his life - while Mordecai had been alone with the Dig Champs and soda. Indeed, too much of the latter was probably responsible for keeping him awake. He cursed his taste for caffeine as he examined the ceiling for the tenth time that evening.

His restless night led to a gray morning. He brushed his pearl-white teeth with a harsh, mechanical back-and-forth, spitting into the sink as if cursing it. Hearing Rigby amble past the bathroom, a carefree whistle bouncing off the hallway walls, was the last straw.

"Dammit, Rigby! I can't hear myself think in here," he shouted through the door.

"Whaaaat?" replied the raccoon.

"You're whistling! Cut it out, or else."

Rigby shrugged and walked down the stairs, whistling as he went.

He was still whistling as Mordecai took his seat opposite him at the breakfast table.

"I thought I told you to cut it out," said the blue jay.

"What's the big deal? I whistle all the time."

"Just don't do it today."

"Fine."

Rigby poured his cereal, silently bopping from side to side. Without his meaning to, a song escaped his lips.

_"Summertime lov-i-i-in, lovin' in the summertime," _he whispered melodically.

Mordecai slammed his fists down on the table and stood up.

"That does it. You're just doing it to piss me off. Have a fun day at work because you're on your own," he said, rising from his seat.

"Mordecai, wait!" said Rigby, holding up a helpless paw as his friend marched out the back door. "I need you to open the milk for me!"

* * *

Rigby eventually finished his breakfast, declining to cry over his spilt milk, before catching up with Mordecai and the other park workers on the steps of the house. He made to talk to Mordecai and figure out what was going on, but before he could, Benson silenced the group with an exaggerated cough.

"OK, folks, it's going to be unseasonably warm today, so I hope you're ready for a workout. Be sure to take on board plenty of fluids and stay in the shade whenever you can. Of course, it would help if some of you didn't look like you'd been up all night," he said, glaring first at Mordecai and then at Yates.

"Don't be lookin' at me, Benson," said Yates, hiding his tired eyes below his cowboy hat. "Ain't this coyote's fault if there's car alarms goin' off all night." Mordecai sat with his wings folded across his chest, refusing to offer an excuse.

"Whatever," said Benson, "just be careful out there. Today's tasks: manning the snack bar for the school group that's coming, repainting the Ultimate field, and filling in those holes that have popped up down by the bridge. I'll be on general watch. Pair up and let's get going."

Muscle Man and Fives were already sitting together, and with Skips away working on a solo project, that left four workers, namely Mordecai, Rigby, Yates, and Thomas. Rigby leapt over to Mordecai to start the day.

"Ready, good buddy? Can I walk behind you to get some extra shade? That's the one advantage of being short, heh heh," he said, eyebrows bouncing.

"Forget it, dude. I meant what I said. I'm not working with you today," said Mordecai, staring at the ground.

"Whaaaaat? Why? We always work together!"

"Because you pissed me off, and maybe it'll do us good to spend a little time apart. Seems like you'll be doing a lot more of that anyway, what with Eileen and all."

"Oh, dude, is that what this is about?" Rigby tried to force eye contact with Mordecai and eventually succeeded. "Look, I'm sorry I called you a loser. I know how cut up you are that you're not getting anywhere fast with Margaret. But that's not my fault. Don't take it out on me."

Mordecai sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry if I overreacted. Just a lot on my mind, you know?"

"Yeah, I know how it is. Anyway, now that Mordecry's gone and Mordecool's back, let's get going."

"Sorry - I already promised Thomas I'd go with him today."

Thomas stood a safe distance away, smiling open-mouthed and waving at Rigby.

"Him?! Augh! Fine. I guess I'm with the new guy, then." He turned to face Yates, who was - or so he'd claim - resting his eyes, slack-jawed and snoring on the steps. "Hey, new guy! Get up! We've got a long day of pretending-" Benson cleared his throat again "-uh, _working_ ahead of us!"

"Huh? Alright, pardner! What we doin'?"

Before Rigby could respond, Benson cut him off. "El Musculoso and Fives already took snack bar duty. Thomas plays Ultimate so I want him to lead on the field with Mordecai. Guess you two better get the shovels out, because that means you're filling in the holes."

Rigby thumped the ground in despair. "No, no, _no! _That's actual _work!_ Aw, man, what are we going to do?"

"Of _course_ it's actual work!" thundered Benson. "You could at least wait until I've gone before you start talking about your _total lack of respect _for the _park_!"

Rigby stood up and smiled at his boss. "Hey, Benson, I respect the park just fine. I just don't respect you." Benson shook his head and walked off towards the trees. Rigby shouted after him, "We cool? Benson? Was just kidding, Benson! Hey!" The gumball machine disappeared from view. Only Yates, Rigby, and a day of 95-degree heat and back-breaking labor remained.

"Don't worry, l'il dude," said Yates, putting a paw on Rigby's shoulder. "We'll make it fun."

"Whatever, dude. Get your fat hand off me and go grab some of those water bottles while I crank up the cart."

"Uh... don't think the cart needs crankin' there, little guy. It's battery-powered."

"So you got a DhP in carts now, Yates? Get the damn water, let me worry about the crankin'."

Yates rolled his eyes and headed for the cooler while Rigby lay down on the passenger seat and closed his eyes.

* * *

The raccoon stirred to life as the cart came to an abrupt stop. Looking around, he saw what Benson had been talking about.

"Man, what _are_ those things?" he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes as Yates took a swig of cold water.

"They're holes, Rigby. We gotta fill 'em."

"Oh, so you got your DhP in holes instead of carts. Great. I _know_ they're holes, dummy. I mean, what _are _they? "

"I dunno, little guy, but I reckon we should figure that out before we break out the shovels. We don't wanna fill 'em in just to see 'em pop up again."

"Well, go and look. I'll stay here and do some important park stuff." Rigby pulled out his cellphone and fired up the web browser.

"What are you doin' there?"

"Gonna search for 'holes' online. See if we can't figure out a shortcut."

"Uhh... I wouldn't do that if I were you. Here, let Yates take a look," he said, trying in vain to wrestle the handset from the racoon's grasp.

"Let me go! My phone! Mine!" said Rigby, fending off Yates with admirable dexterity.

"OK, OK, keep it – but try 'unexplained holes in parks'. Not 'holes' on its own. Trust me, dude. Don't make the same mistake I did."

"OK, OK... u-n-e-x-p-l-a-i-n-d... holes... woah, Yates! Check this out!"

The first result was a news page from the next town over. "That's the park just a couple of miles from here! It's happening over there, too! And look!"

Yates read along over Rigby's shoulder. "... it's happening outside parks, too – all over the tri-county area! Well, looks like we got us a mystery."

Rigby looked at Yates in disbelief. "No, dummy. It means we've got an excuse to throw these shovels down a hole and go on a research mission! Cruisin' the streets, wind in our hair, not shovelin', goin' to other parks, eatin' tacos... this is gonna be a good day."

Yates ruffled Rigby's head fur. "Ha ha! I always knew you were smarter than you sounded, Rigby. Uh, no offence."

"Was hardly listening anyway, dude," said Rigby, although he had felt a little pang of shame. "Just drive before Benson sees us sitting here."

* * *

"... and the great thing about Ultimate is that it combines the best elements of soccer, football, and throwing flying discs around," continued Thomas, as Mordecai slowly lost the will to live.

"Dude, stop calling them flying discs. Just call them frisbees like everyone else," said the blue jay, sweat already starting to form as they trudged across the Ultimate field.

"Frisbee® is a registered trademark of the Wham-O corporation. That's why we just call it Ultimate. You know, Ultimate was first played on a football field, and..."

"Look, no offence, Thomas," said Mordecai, rubbing his brow, "but I had a crappy night's sleep and we have a lot to do here, so can we skip the history lesson and just get this over with? You take the north end, I'll take the south, and we can meet halfway if we don't die of heatstroke."

Mordecai looked over at the goat and saw rejection in his eyes. This prompted a feeling of intense regret. Thomas had just been trying to bond, Mordecai knew. He'd probably had this planned since he first offered to work with him that morning. He knew all too well what it was like to be shot down despite one's best efforts.

"On second thoughts... it'll go faster if we can keep each other company, I guess. Let's just start at the north end together," said Mordecai, rubbing the back of his neck. Thomas smiled that goofy but endearing smile of his, and Mordecai smiled back. "On one condition: don't tell me anything about Ultimate, because I've already decided that it sucks."

"Haha, deal, Mordecai," smiled Thomas. "What do you wanna talk about? Hey - you got a girlfriend?" Mordecai shook his head and fought back a wince. Thomas didn't notice. "Well, I do! I met her at college – I gotta introduce her to you guys sometime. We met on the Ultimate team. Funny story, actually..."

Mordecai groaned. Maybe he should have worked alone after all.

* * *

"So, where's this here stage headed, pardner? I'm new in town, remember, don't know the thoroughfares so well," said Yates, slowly driving through the park gates and into the city.

"Thorough… fair… dude, _what?_ Just take a left at the lights and stop talking like you're from Shakespeare."

"A man can't help where he's from, l'il buddy," said Yates, eyes fixed on the road. "Ain't no shame in how I do."

"Yeah, ain't no sense in it either, _paaaardner_," said Rigby, furiously making scare-quotes with his fingers. "And take the next right."

"Fine. But where we headed?"

"Next park over, just over the city limits. The place from the news article, remember? Those guys are dicks but they're also pretty smart. We might be able to help each other out."

"How're they dicks?"

"They just _are._ It'd take all day to explain it. But… maybe you and your dumbass Renfair talk can help us out here."

"What d'you mean, Rigby?"

"Like, they know me already. And they don't like me. You come in all, _'__boy howdy there, parderinos, ain't no gringo in this here taco,__'_ and they just might listen. Or be so damn confused they just agree to whatever."

"Hell, worth a shot."

"Yeah. And then we're going for tacos."

"_Now_ you're on the trolley."

Rigby was trying to figure out what a trolley was when the cart came to a crashing halt, sending him and Yates flying out the front.

* * *

After Mordecai steered Thomas away from girl talk, they managed to get on pretty well. Thomas was eager to impress his new colleague and Mordecai was enjoying some fresh company for a change. In fact, as they approached the halfway point, the blue jay could hardly stop himself from talking.

"Oh, dude, you should have seen them. They were so cute, and the best part is they totally kicked Rigby's one-cheeked ass at video games. Then they saved the park but I don't think we're supposed to talk about that. Insurance reasons. Benson made us sign something. Anyway, those were the coolest ducks you'd ever seen, trust me. If you ever get karate-chopped by a baby duck, you know that's one of our buddies."

"Will they still be babies now?" asked Thomas.

"Good question. I hope so. They're not like other ducks. Man, I hope they come back one day."

"Me too! Hey, look – we're halfway done."

"Alright, dude! Time for a break?"

"You know it!"

The duo headed off to the bleachers, where they found a shaded patch and sat down. Mordecai rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thomas take off his t-shirt, pour some water on it, and wrap it around the back of his neck. Mordecai looked up.

"Keeps the sun off," Thomas explained. "And of course it cools me down a bit, too."

"Yeah. Makes sense. I don't really go in for the whole clothes thing, though."

"I can see that."

With eyes closed against the sun, Thomas took a long draught from his water bottle, his throat muscles contracting with each gulp. Mordecai watched, his new friend glowing with sweat and the satisfaction of a job well done. Thomas finished his drink and exhaled with satisfaction. He caught Mordecai's eye; they chuckled nervously. After a second they both snapped their gazes straight ahead.

Mordecai quickly said, "Your girlfriend. How long have you been going out?"

"Oh, just a couple of months. It ain't serious. Not yet anyway," said Thomas. "Guys our age have to keep their options open, you know?" Mordecai's eyes widened slightly. Thomas added, "I mean, plenty of chicks out there for us, right?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah, totally, dude," replied Mordecai, nodding vigorously. "Tons of babes. Especially when you work outside like we do. It's almost summer, dude! Just a couple more months and they'll all be out in their short skirts—"

"—and their short shorts!"

"Woaaaaaah!" they sang in unison.

"Well, it's going to be really hot this afternoon, so maybe we'll even get lucky and see some today," said Mordecai. "But let's get this done before the temperature gets crazy insane. If we keep on like this we could maybe even finish the entire field before lunch, right down to the scorezone."

"Endzone."

"Whatever. Put your shirt back on and let's get to work."

* * *

Benson's checklist was stained with sweat where he'd been clutching it. Silently cursing, he placed his hand under the paper and onto the clipboard. When he rounded the corner to the bridge, though, it was all he could do not to snap his wooden accessory in two.

"Where the ever-living _hell_ did those two idiots _go?_" he yelled. Birds flew from the trees at the noise.

The supervisor could hardly believe it. Not only had Yates and Rigby failed to fill in a single hole, but there were actually two more now than there had been the previous night. Slacking was one thing, but this looked like outright sabotage. Benson pulled out his cellphone and speed dialled Rigby. The sight of the little raccoon's face on the screen – tongue out, party hat on, taken at a staff night out the previous December – softened his anger, but only slightly. After only a minimal delay, Rigby picked up.

"Rigby, it's Benson. Where are you? I'm guessing you're out of walkie-talkie range, based on the fact that you're _nowhere to be found at the park!_"

"Listen, Benson, we can explain! There's some serious S going on and we're still trying to figure it the H out! But you need to trust me for a minute. We can't talk now – let me call you back in an hour."

"Oh, is that so you and your new comrade-in-slacking have time to come up with an excuse?"

"No! Duuuude, I _promise._ We've gotta go now – just trust me on this!"

The line went dead, and party hatted-Rigby faded from Benson's screen.

The gumball machine sighed and, after a moment's hesitation, placed a question mark rather than an X on Rigby and Yates' daily progress report. "This really better be good," he muttered to himself as he headed back for the house.

* * *

For once, Rigby was telling the truth.

He and Yates each had a couple of bruises and a scrape or two, but nothing major. Yates had been going slowly enough that the crash didn't cause much damage at all, to either them or the cart. The fender was slightly bent out of shape, but Skips could sort that out easily enough.

The emergency, though, was just what they'd crashed into and how.

"Dude!" shouted Rigby. "What the hell did you hit?!"

"What did _I _hit?! I didn't hit a dang thing, Rigby! You saw it as well as I did! We crashed into… nothin' at all!"

Rigby couldn't disagree. There was no explaining it – they'd just crashed into what seemed to be thin air. The cart had bounced back a few feet from the impact. Yates walked ahead of the cart and noticed a slight depression in the road – one getting bigger by the second.

"Rigby, look! It's another hole!"

A concave, circular pit in the ground, the same size and shape as the ones in the park, appeared before them – six feet wide, and two feet deep at the center point. Gingerly Yates approached it as Rigby stood back at a safe distance. Just as he got to the edge, though, Yates' toes met an invisible barrier.

"There's… somethin' here, little guy. Come and take a look."

"I can look just fine from here, but…" Rigby offered backup. He crept closer and stretched out a paw where Yates' foot was resting. There it was – a solid, but completely invisible object.

"OK. Either we're both crazy or something hella weird's going on here, Yates," said the raccoon.

"It's somethin' weird. I don't think the cart's crazy."

"Oh yeah, right. We need to get that fixed. That's why I got Benson off the phone. He's going to lose his balls if he finds out I wrecked another cart."

"But this wasn't our fault, Rigby! He's gotta understand that there's... somethin' weird goin' on."

"Oh, does he now?" Rigby rolled his eyes. "That dude doesn't trust me at all. I'm going to call Skips down here to get this fixed."

Rigby pulled out his cellphone and started composing a text to the yeti as Yates felt his way around the solid object.

"Hey, Rigby. It feels a little bit narrower at the top. I think it's a sphere."

"Like a circle?"

"Yeah. Look, we gotta do somethin' 'bout this. Other cars are going to hit this if we move the cart off the road. What do you think?"

"I think shut the hell up and let me text. We gotta get the cart fixed or Benson's going to fire us!"

"No, Rigby! Look, this problem's bigger than you and Benson. Forget your dang cart! He'll understand! Give me the dang cellphone!"

This time Yates grabbed the handset before Rigby could react. Holding the furious raccoon off with one hand, he quickly called Benson.

"Benson? Yates here. We got us in a little scrape in the cart downtown, and-"

"-what the _William H Macy _are you doing_ downtown?!"_

"- and we can explain everything. Well, we _can't_ explain anything, really. But listen – you gotta get down here. Bring Skips too. You gotta see this. Or… _feel _it."

"Oh, I'm coming down alright, because I want to know exactly what kind of mushrooms you two slackers are on so I can find their official Latin name for your disciplinary report. _Don't. Move._"

Benson was too confused to be angry. He hung up, called Skips, and headed for the yeti's workshop to hitch a ride downtown.


	2. Chapter 2

Benson had had plenty of time to stew on the day's events as he walked to Skips' place. The day's biggest job - filling in the mysterious holes - hadn't even been started yet, and it was almost lunchtime. Throw in Yates' and Rigby's dented cart and it had been a typically awful Monday so far. He didn't dare contact the other two work crews to see how they were getting on: usually Muscle Man and Fives were fine, but he didn't think he could take bad news from Mordecai and Thomas.

Working outside kept Benson fit, so thanks to a brisk walking pace it wasn't long before he'd arrived at Skips' place. Skips was tinkering under a vintage car, but as soon as Benson said they needed to go downtown, he sprung out from under the vehicle and headed for his cart. Benson hopped into the passenger side and Skips sped away.

"You're in a hurry, Skips. I haven't even told you what's happening yet," said Benson.

"No, but I could take a guess. It's those holes, right?" replied the yeti.

"Yeah, it's a pair of holes: Rigby and Yates. They've crashed a cart downtown, or so they say, but that damn coyote wouldn't give me any details."

"There's a lot more to it than a little cart crash, Benson. Trust me. I'll explain."

"OK, go for it."

"Actually... it's probably best you see it for yourself. Or... _feel_ it."

"If one more person says that to me today, I swear-"

"Relax, Benson. We'll be there soon."

* * *

Yates and Rigby were forced to play traffic cops. The real police were mercifully absent, but the downtown traffic was building up for the lunch rush. It wasn't the ideal place for a cart breakdown.

"Why don't you get that damn cart off the road," yelled one motorist as he slowed down to pass the stricken vehicle.

"Long story, dude!" called Yates in response. "We're blockin' this here pothole for y'all! But it's not really a pothole!"

"Jackass!" was the response as the other car sped away.

Yates sighed. "I really hope they get here soon. I'm startin' to feel stupid, standin' around here, blockin' folks from where they need to go."

Rigby, by this time reclined on top of the cart, replied, "Yeah? I thought you'd already feel dumb with that stupid hat of yours."

"You're just jealous cuz they don't make 'em small enough to fit that itty bitty head o' yours, amigo."

"I already have the best hat in the world. It says 'I'm Eggscellent' on it, and _you'll_ never get to wear it."

"Somehow I reckon I can deal with that, l'il guy."

They exchanged feeble banter along these lines until, finally, a familiar park cart appeared from around the corner. Benson and Skips jumped out, and the manager stormed towards his two employees.

"What the hell are you doing? Rigby, get off of there! Why's this still on the road? We all look like jackasses, holding up traffic like this! Skips, help me push it off! Skips!"

Benson turned around to see Skips erecting a little barricade five yards back.

"I came prepared, Benson. _Now_ we can move the cart without putting anyone in danger."

Rigby gracefully agreed to come down from the cart roof and the other three pushed it off into the parking spaces, next to the fully-functional one brought by Benson and Skips.

"OK, Skips, can you get to work fixing that while these two chumps explain themselves?" asked Benson.

"I think I'd better help out here first, Benson. Yates, Rigby: you crashed into the hole, right?"

"Yeah, well, no, not exactly," said Yates, rubbing the back of his neck. "See, it felt like we hit somethin', but there was nothin' there, but it feels like somethin', and..."

Skips held up his hands and shook his head. "OK, OK, I get it. Benson, come over here."

The boss followed Skips to the edge of the hole, around which traffic was now steered by the barrier.

"Touch that."

"Touch what, Skips? There's nothing there. Are you on the same 'shrooms as these two?" asked Benson. "Why is _nobody_ making any sense t-" he said as he threw out his arms in wild gesticulation, only for his right hand to clatter off the invisible object.

"Ow! What the..." he said, his pain almost immediately dampened by fear and incomprehension.

"Yeah, exactly," said Skips. "I've seen this before, these holes with the invisible spheres. But I didn't think they'd come here. Not now."

"That's what we've been trying to tell you! These things are everywhere!" cried Rigby. "That's why we crashed the cart, not because we were slackin' off."

"But what were you doing down here in the first place?"

"We read online that Gene's park has the holes, too, so we were gonna go and ask him what to do."

"Uh uh, you aren't going to ask those guys _anything._ We're going to go back to the park and figure this out on our own."

"But Benson!" protested Rigby. "They're so much smarter than you!"

The gumball machine's rage meter reached a light red, but Skips was able to defuse the situation.

"We don't need to go and see Gene, Rigby. I think I know what's goin' on. Let's tow the other cart back - there isn't much time."

"Not much time for what?" the other three wanted to ask, but Skips was lost in hooking the carts together. They jumped into the functional one and waited for the yeti to drive them back to the park, explain, and hopefully fix everything before the day got even weirder.

* * *

For Thomas and Mordecai, it had been the ideal Monday: just enough work for them to feel productive, but not so much that they'd lost the will to live. They finished their task right down to the endzone, giving them plenty of time for a lazy lunch. Both had brought their own.

"I didn't know you fixed your own lunch, Mordecai. My mom makes mine," said Thomas between bites.

"I don't usually. Rigby and I eat out a lot, but I knew I wasn't working with him today so I came prepared."

"Oh yeah? Where do you guys eat?"

"There's this coffee shop downtown we go to."

"What's good there?"

"Actually, the food's pretty bad, and really expensive. It's complicated."

Thomas felt he knew what Mordecai was getting at, but didn't want to be so forward as to bring it up directly.

"Yeah, I know how that is. Sometimes places just have some... atmosphere or something. They keep you coming back," he said.

Mordecai knew that Thomas knew. "Yeah, I'm talking about a girl, OK? You don't need to dance around it," he laughed.

"Haha, I thought so. But yeah, no luck with her yet?" asked the goat.

"Nah, not really. I mean... some. But it's hard to be serious with her. Two reasons: one, I get so nervous. Two, when I'm not nervous, we're having such a good time as good friends that I don't want to wreck it."

Thomas nodded. "That's tough, dude. But friendship's its own reward."

"Oh, totally. I'm not whining about being friend-zoned. That's what I'm saying: we're really good friends and I don't want to mess that up. I mean, what if we got together and didn't work out? I'd never see her again!"

"Yeah, totally." Thomas wasn't sure what to say. It was, as with most men, his habit to give advice ahead of empathy, but in this situation it was different. He had little to offer, and in any case Mordecai's exact dilemma hit a little bit too close to home. "I know exactly how you feel," was all he had to say, and that was that.

Their unawkward silence was broken by Mordecai's cellphone. "Augh! It's Benson. So much for a lazy afternoon," he said, as he flipped it open.

"Yeah. Yeah. Fine. On our way," he said, hanging up. "OK, we're needed over at the house. Sounds important."

"Race you to the ?" said Thomas, with a goofy smile on his face.

"Dude, what are you, ten years old? There's no way I'm getting into- OKGO! LOSERBUYSSODA!"

Mordecai was ten yards away before Thomas could react.

* * *

Muscle Man and Hi-Five Ghost, meanwhile, finished their burritos after a typically strenuous morning. Between them they made a good team, Muscle Man providing the, well, muscles, and Fives' natural agility lending itself to all kinds of tasks.

What's more, despite their hard-partying ways, they were the consummate professionals while on the clock. Muscle Man never failed to check in between tasks.

He pulled out his walkie-talkie and buzzed his boss, as he did every day. "Yo, Benson! We're stuffed full of burritos and it's one o'clock. You know what that means. New job time!"

Normally it was the highlight of Benson's day to hear his minions so eager to get back to work, but today was different.

"Guys, I don't have a new job for you," crackled the voice from the other end. "There's something going on here. Listen: come back to the house right now, but whatever you do, don't drive through any of the big potholes you see. I'll explain when you get here."

Muscle Man sighed. "Man, what's the point in having a cart if you can't do wicked jumps out of potholes?"

"We'd better do as he says," warned Fives. "He'll know if we don't."

"Bo-ring. But... fine."

* * *

Thomas and Mordecai were last to arrive at the house, the blue jay managing to maintain his slender lead over the goat to win their hastily-arranged wager.

Mordecai wiped sweat from his brow and panted, "Yes! Soda! You're buying!"

Thomas grabbed Mordecai over the shoulder with one arm and knuckled his head with the other. "You cheated, bro!"

"As touching as this scene is, boys," said Benson, less angrily than normal, "we have an emergency. Skips is going to explain, so shut your mouth-holes and sit down."

This sounded serious to Mordecai. Benson was strange in that sometimes the quieter he was, the more serious was the situation. And above all, he hadn't even asked about the Ultimate field yet. The silence even from Muscle Man and Rigby, among others, suggested that something was seriously wrong.

Skips emerged from the garage with a flip chart and a marker pen. Benson was impressed at the Yeti's organization, even though it was to be expected.

"You've probably all seen those holes over by the bridge. There were six last night, and now there's eight. There's another three downtown, and two over at East Pine's, the park Gene works at. Then there are two on main street. "

"So it's not just the park," said Muscle Man.

"Right. There are fifteen of 'em around, and I think that's gonna be all of them. I know what's going on here. Those of you who haven't seen it... well, felt it... might find it hard to believe, but those aren't just holes. They're filled with solid, invisible spheres. Well, invisible for now, anyway."

Mordecai, Fives, and Muscle Man seemed to take this in stride. Thomas looked around the staff in disbelief. "OK, nobody else is gonna touch this? You guys are just going along with it? Invisible spheres?"

"Trust me, Thomas," said Benson. "I'm the biggest skeptic around here, and I've felt them with my own hands. It's exactly what Skips is describing. If you really want, we'll have him throw you at one of them and you can feel it for yourself. Until then, just listen."

Skips cleared his throat and continued. "These are..."

Muscle Man interrupted. "Hey, wait a minute, Skips. You said there were fifteen of 'em. But I heard on the radio on the way over there was a new one down at the pier. That makes sixteen."

Skips' chest muscles tightened, and his heart began to race. _The pier._ His eyes widened with realization, then narrowed.

"If you guys are just going to keep interrupting me, you can figure it out for yourselves!" he roared. He leapt into one of the functional carts and sped off.

"Well that's just _great_, Muscle Man," shouted a rapidly-reddening Benson. "The one guy who knew what was going on, and you pissed him off!"

"He'll be back," shrugged Muscle Man.

"Yeah, but what do we do until then?" asked Hi-Five Ghost.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," said Benson. "We're going to go and push the spheres out of the holes in the park so we can get the damn things filled in. Then we're going to call Skips, and _Muscle Man and Thomas are going to apologize, or they're both fired!_"

Now didn't seem the time for any further interruptions. The crew piled into the remaining two carts and headed off for the bridge to start what was bound to be a long afternoon of frustratingly mysterious work.

Meanwhile Skips was driving as fast as he could to the waterfront, with tears in his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

"Guys, I know I'm just an intern, but someone's gotta say it: this is flat-out ridiculous."

For a second, Benson knew what Thomas meant. Here they were, the whole park crew except Skips, ready to pull invisible balls from six-foot-wide holes. It was ridiculous.

But orders were orders. Benson had felt the spheres for himself, and he'd made his feelings plain to Thomas and the others back at the house.

He turned his head around to the back seat and shouted over the rushing wind to Thomas. "You wanna know what else is ridiculous, Thomas? That you didn't end your sentence after the word 'intern'. I've told you what to do, and you're going to do it," said the gumball machine, between glances at the road.

"Yeah, Thomas," sneered Rigby from the back of the cart. "Stop being so unprofessional. Less talk, more rock."

Mordecai punched his friend on the shoulder and yelled at him.

"You hypocrite, Rigby! You guys didn't fill in a single hole all morning. Thomas and I worked hard and now we're having to do your job for you!"

Thomas smiled to himself, glad and also a little proud that his new friend had leapt to his defence. Rigby made a whimper of protest, but Benson cut him off.

"He's got a point, Rigby," said the boss. "Mordecai and Thomas make a great team, while you and Yates haven't exactly done much today except wreck a cart."

"Yeah, well, that was his fault," said Rigby, unconvincingly. Before anyone could pick him up on it, he changed the subject. "Hey, what did you guys have for lunch?"

* * *

Yates, meanwhile, was riding along with Muscle Man and Hi-Five Ghost. Muscle Man had the classic rock amped so high that conversation was impossible. While Yates was normally a fan of the 80s, he was glad when they pulled over by the bridge and Muscle Man shut off the engine and the radio.

"So..." began Yates. He was angling for conversation, and thankfully for him someone got the hint.

"Hey, how was working with Rigby?" asked Fives.

"Oh, pretty good, pretty good. That little guy's hilarious," replied Yates.

"Yeah, well, he can't work worth jack," Muscle Man interrupted. "Not like me and my boy Cinco here! Up high!" The ghost high-fived his friend and mentor.

"You fellers really take your jobs seriously, don't you?" asked Yates.

"Oh, yeah, bro," said Muscle Man, nodding aggressively. "And that's why we're going to clear out one of these holes before the others even get here."

Muscle Man and Fives jogged to the nearest hole and reached out towards it.

"It's just like they said! There's something here!" said Muscle Man. "Hey, Fives, you gettin' the same thing?"

"Yeah, Muscle Man, solid as a rock. I can't see it either!"

"Well, how do you guys wanna do this?" asked Yates.

"Same way we deal with everything, bro," replied Muscle Man. "Tie a rope to it, fix the rope to the cart, and gun it!"

Within seconds Muscle Man and Fives had done exactly as he'd promised, the rope taut around the sphere's equator. Fives pulled Yates to a safe distance, and Muscle Man got back in the cart.

"Alright, here we go!"

He stomped on the accelerator with all his force, willing the cart to move. But as much as the wheels spun and the motor screamed, the cart and the sphere stayed stubbornly in place.

As Muscle Man continued to press the pedal, Benson's cart appeared beside theirs. The gumball machine leapt out with fury.

"Muscle Man! You're draining the battery! What do you think you're doing? Get the hell out of there!"

The green one complied with his boss' orders. In fact the entire crew gathered around him.

"Here's what we're going to do. All of us are going to gather on one side in a huddle and push, except Rigby, who's going to stand at the side and check our progress. Ready? Line up."

Impressed by his taking charge of the situation, everyone got into position. Even Rigby scampered over to his spot without complaint.

"OK, ready? Push!"

On Benson's signal the six began to shove, grinding their teeth and groaning with effort.

"Is it moving?" asked Thomas from the back of the pile.

"No... I don't think so... maybe... nah, definitely not," said Rigby.

"Rigby! Get underneath our shoulders and push it from the bottom," said Benson between gasps.

"Augh! Fine!" Rigby hated effort, but felt it was better to do as his manager said.

The raccoon reached out and leaned into the sphere, only to be instantly sent flat on his back. A bright flash of light and a high-pitched whine sent everyone scattering, cowering to cover their eyes and ears. Within seconds it was gone - and so was the invisible sphere.

It was replaced with something all too visible.

A solid sphere sat before them, beautiful in its way - a deep, translucent blue, with a low hum emanating from the surface. And as the workers' visions re-adjusted from the light to see the details, they could hardly believe what was inside.

It was a likeness of Rigby - shaded blue and outlined in glowing white, but Rigby nonetheless. He was in a crouched position, with a sheet of paper in one hand. He looked like he was sneaking, and seemed very pleased with himself.

Nobody spoke for a moment, until Thomas broke the silence.

"Rigby! What did you do?" asked the goat.

"Me? What? Nothing! I just did like Benson asked, then it went all bright and loud and... now there's me! In the sphere!"

The raccoon reached out with both hands and thumped on the sphere's surface. It was as solid and immutable as it had been just a minute before, only now it was reflecting a piece of his past back at him.

* * *

Skips stopped crying almost as quickly as he began. He pushed the cart to its limits through the city streets, taking a little detour to avoid the hole downtown from earlier. He imagined the cops would be there by now, checking out what by his measurements was the second last hole to appear.

The last one was his destination.

At length he arrived at the waterfront, where the vast Pacific ocean lay before him. But he had no room in his mind for the mysteries of the deep, the countless islands, the civilizations beyond the waves. No, his problem was all too close to home.

He parked the cart at the side of the promenade and skipped his way down the pier. It was mainly abandoned these days, the fishing trade having long since gone and only the occasional one-day cruise ship stopping by. But there were plenty of people walking up and down, enjoying the spring heatwave. There was no sign of a sphere here.

Of course.

Under the boardwalk.

He raced back to land and slid down the embankment onto the rocky shore. Nobody came down here anymore - it was harsh and barren and without any of the appeal people picture when they hear 'beach'. But once upon it a time it was private, and the noise of the waves was rhythmic and soothing. No wonder young lovers hid out here.

Young lovers like Skips' young lover. Young lovers like Skips.

He knew before he even saw it that there would be a sphere-hole waiting for him, and there it was, inches from one of the supporting posts. Its circular dip taunted him like a curling smirk.

It reminded him of what once was. He slowed his pace, walked up to it deliberately, closed his eyes, and leaned on it with both hands.

* * *

Rigby was now beside himself figuratively as well as literally. "Guys, I don't like this. Is this a prank? Muscle Man!" He sprinted over to Muscle Man and grabbed his shirt. "Ha ha!" he laughed desperately. "You got me! This is the best prank ever! It doesn't make any sense but yeah dude it was awesome and can we stop it now?"

"Get off of me, bro!" said the green one, shoving Rigby onto his back. "It wasn't me." Rigby got to his feet, wild-eyed and panting, but unsure of anything to say.

"What is it, anyway?" said Mordecai. "Benson, did Skips tell you?"

"No, he didn't get that far before you idiots chased him off," said the boss. "But... it's Rigby. And it looks like a photo of some kind."

"It can't be a photo!" protested Rigby. "There was nobody else there! This was when I was a kid-"

"But you're the exact same height as now," said Thomas.

"Stop talking!"

Rigby raced towards the goat and launched ferocious punches at his knees. Thomas reached down and grabbed Rigby's arms.

"Dude, relax! I didn't mean it like that! Mordecai, can't you calm him down?"

"Yeah, Rigby. Come on. We need to figure this out, and we can't do it with you freaking out on us. Stay with us, dude," reasoned Mordecai.

"OK, OK, you're right, you're right," said Rigby. Mordecai tormented Rigby more than anyone, but he also knew the best ways to chill him out. Benson was impressed.

"Thanks, Mordecai," said the boss. "Rigby, we know you're upset, but let's be reasonable about this. I'm going to try to call Skips. Given that we have no idea what's going on, we need his help. Let's just try not to break anything without his say-so. And that includes Thomas' kneecaps."

Mordecai sat down with Rigby on the cart. He put an arm over his friend's shoulder. "Just relax, Rigby. You don't need to do or say anything until Skips gets here." Thomas rolled his eyes and kicked a pebble at the sphere.

* * *

Skips had already turned his phone off. Even if he hadn't, he wouldn't have answered it. Not now.

Skips had dealt with the deep, bassy hum and the harsh luminescence before, but only once. He thought - he hoped - that day would never come again. But now it was here. He'd got over his initial attack of emotions quickly enough, and now was determined to set things right and banish the past back to where it belonged.

But as soon as he opened his eyes, the old feelings came flooding back. He knew exactly what scene was waiting for him, yet if anything this made it even more powerful. The folds of her high-neck collar; her stylish hat; above all, the warmth of her face and the glow of her hair. Even his own visage set him off - he had a carefree style he'd seldom worn before or since.

He knew, though, that now was not the time for self-pity. He was certain he was the only one of the group to understand what was happening, and while he allowed himself a moment of tearful reflection, he knew what had to be done.

"I'm... sorry. I'm sorry I left you so quickly."

The ball before him hummed a little louder.

Skips' tears were back. "But I did it for you!" The ball quietened slightly, as if to retreat; Skips sighed with resignation.

"I did it for us... for me. Our years together were the happiest I'd ever been, and each passing day made it better. But I knew one day you'd die... and leave me here."

Skips narrowed his eyes, both from crying and at the harsh glow now shining from the sphere on which he leant.

"I couldn't take the pain! If each day was better than the last, how would I feel when you... passed on, decades down the line? It was too much, and I had to let you go. I'm sorry I never told you this while you were alive. I'm so sorry."

The ball shone brilliant white and the hum became a high-pitched whining tone, before the whole sphere collapsed in on itself. Skips tripped forward as his support gave way, but he'd been expecting it and was able to steady his footing as the hole filled itself in beneath him.

He staggered the few short steps to the boardwalk pillar and collapsed down against it, sobbing to beat the waves. He wanted to stay here, to stay here forever, until the tide came in and washed away his tears and his breath.

He wanted to be with her. But he knew he couldn't.

At least he'd passed the first test, he thought to himself. Doing it alone was best. He didn't want the others to see him like this. In truth he was glad the sphere had accepted his offering without an audience. Others wouldn't be so lucky, he considered, shaking his head at what was to come.

He beat the rocks beneath his body with his fists, then stood up. He switched his phone back on and called Benson.

"Skips, hi. Where are you?" said his boss.

"I'm coming back. Don't touch anything. Especially not the spheres," said the yeti, as he headed back to the cart.

"Yeah, it's a little late for that."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah. Skips, what's going on? Why's Rigby in a sphere?"

"Yeah, why am I in a sphere?" barked a tiny voice from the other end of the line. "Skips! You gotta help me, man!"

"I'll explain when I get there. Give me a few minutes. Just... just get ready to..."

Skips trailed off, snapped shut his phone, and drove back to the park.


	4. Chapter 4

Barely a word was spoken as the park crew waited for Skips. Even Rigby had stopped panicking long enough - visibly, at least - to keep quiet. He huddled into Mordecai's side, enveloped by the blue jay's wing, and waited. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder at... well, at what he wasn't sure, except that it was him. Only Muscle Man seemed unperturbed by what was happening, watching cat videos online with Fives on his phone.

In fact, other than the occasional guffaw from Muscle Man, the road into the park was strangely quiet. Morning rush hour was over, true, but there was a remarkable lack of traffic. Benson stared down the street and noticed why: the police, belatedly, had set up a roadblock to prevent motorists from hitting the mysterious hazard just through the park gates and next to the bridge.

He vaguely wondered why the cops didn't approach the crew for an explanation, but stopped himself: he knew well enough that 'his type' were ignored by most humans. Avoided. Alone. It bothered him more than it did the others. If Rigby, for example, ever cared even a little bit about being a second-class citizen, he never let on. But for Benson it was a source of near-constant insecurity.

The gumball machine was awakened from his self-pity by the noise of an approaching cart from the opposite direction. Everyone looked up to see Skips pull up and park next to the sphere containing the facsimile of Rigby. With expectant eyes they looked to their spiritual leader.

Skips felt the weight of expectation through their stares. He'd felt it a thousand times before, of course. He was The Wise One, The Old One, The One Who Can Fix Things, The One Who's Seen This Before. It was his duty, after all, to lend his experience to any situation that arose. And, if pressed, he'd admit that he liked to feel valuable, to feel wanted. Seldom was he happier than when he heard those four magic words: "Skips can fix anything." It was a role he'd never asked for, but 95 per cent of the time he played it without complaint, and with feeling.

This time definitely fell into the other five percent. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, with his memories. To head out to the mountains and walk the trails he used to cross with another. To remember. To forgive himself.

But he couldn't, because they needed him. It was the story of his life.

Skips was at least heartened that Benson had taken charge of the situation.

"Skips, thanks for coming back," he said, placing a cold hand on the yeti's arm for a second before turning around to the rest of his employees. "Everyone else, _shut the hell up or you're fired! _Because this time Skips is going to tell us what's going on, and you're going to listen. The only sound I want to hear is someone taking notes. You, intern," he said, snapping a finger at Thomas. "You're in college, so start writing. There's a notepad in the glovebox."

Thomas duly headed for the cart, but Skips stopped him in his tracks as he spoke.

"You don't need to write this down. Trust me. Once you hear about it, you aren't going to forget about it... even if you want to." He dropped his head at the last sentence.

Benson relied on Skips a lot more than he'd care to admit, and his inner gears ground backwards at the sight and sound of his friend and, let's face it, mentor being so distressed. In truth, he also felt a little anger, because Skips was sure taking his sweet time getting to the point. But with that anger came a chaser of guilt, because there was no imagining what kind of horrors had relegated the usually unflappable yeti to such sadness.

"OK. Go for it," said Benson.

Skips looked around again. Everyone was quiet, even Rigby, who would occasionally cast a nervous glance back to himself suspended within the sphere. It was time to put the little guy out of his misery.

"These spheres... are specters from your past," he said. "I don't know why they're here now, I don't know why they've come after me- after us again, but here they are."

Muscle Man raised a finger and opened his mouth as if to speak, but an elbow in the ribs from Benson put a stop to that. Skips went on.

"The only way to get rid of them is to activate them and confront them. You guys know by now that they're activated with a touch. But only the touch of the person - or people - involved can turn them on."

"Wait... confront? What?" Rigby couldn't hold his tongue any longer, and he just _had_ to know. "It's scary! I don't like it!" Sometimes he sounded more like a kid than a 23-year-old man, but Skips knew how to deal with it: just explain it in simple, reassuring terms. The only problem was there was no way to do that. This was, as some might put it, bad news however you looked at it.

"The powers behind this... they want balance. Neutrality. So they want rights to be wronged. That means when they show you something from your past, they want you to fix it."

"But I can't fix it!" yelled Rigby. "It was like, ten years ago. And... and..."

"Rigby!" shouted Mordecai. "You heard what he said. Confront it!" He looked back to Skips. "Wait... how do you confront it?"

"Well, that depends," said Skips. "Sometimes it's as simple as admitting to yourself what you did, and why you did it. Other times... you have to right a wrong. And sometimes it can take a lot of time to figure it out. It could be something deep in your past. Something you... have to force yourself to remember."

Benson felt his gears grind backwards again. "Skips, is this the only way out?" Everyone looked over to him. "I mean... what'd happen if we just... didn't?"

"You'll be crushed by guilt."

The boss gave Skips a thin smile. "I'm already like that."

"No. You'll be literally crushed. As in, if you leave the spheres alone, one will land on you one day. One day soon. Balance doesn't wait for long."

The crew looked to each other nervously. Skips had explained it in terms even Rigby could understand. Thomas was next to speak.

"So... wait, this is all about us? People at the park? Why haven't I ever seen this before?"

Skips turned away before speaking this time, completely unable to make eye contact.

"Because... someone battled... I mean, _I _battled against balance too far. It was a long time ago. But every so often they come to keep me in check." He turned back. "If it was just me, I'd probably let it crush me. But they know my weak point. I can't let other people suffer. So... we're going to have to get through this. I'm just sorry it's happening to us all now. I thought last time was the last time, but..."

Skips' voice and demeanor naturally caused sympathy. From most people, at least.

"Wait... there's a sphere of me blocking the road and freaking me out, and it's _your_ fault? Well, why don't you fix it?!"

"Rigby, he told you there's only one way to fix it!" yelled Benson.

"I don't care! Skips, you're supposed to be looking out for us! If stuff like this follows you around what are you even doing here?! Go back to the mountains or wherever it is you're from!"

That was the last thing Rigby remembered saying before he was flat on his back, eyes closed.

Thomas, meanwhile, felt a throb in his fist as he was restrained by Mordecai and Muscle Man.

* * *

The raccoon opened his eyes slowly. Sight. Light. Pain. _Revenge._ "You... you... punched me!" said Rigby, through a swollen mouth. He tried to scramble to his feet but barely managed to get to all fours before planting back down. "What the H, Thomas?!"

"You were out of line!" said the goat. "I'm sick of your bullshit, Rigby! You only ever think about yourself! You think Skips asked for this?!"

Rigby felt the glare of disapproval from the others upon him. He'd felt it a thousand times before. What a screw-up. He rummaged in his limited emotional arsenal for a shield to deflect their ire. "What... no! And... you punched me, dude! That's uncalled for! An'... an' Mordecai! Why didn't you help me up?" He sounded on the verge of tears, his indignation and frustration coming clearly through his misshapen mouth.

The blue jay was normally wise to Rigby's finger-pointing, but the guilt from his friend's words of hurt hit him where he couldn't defend it. "I... I was stopping him from whaling on you, dude!" he said. "Look! I've still got ahold of his arm!" It was true, he did, but with Thomas' breath slowed back to a normal level, he felt it safe to let go, and Muscle Man did likewise.

"You were _way_ out of line. And that's all there is to it," said Thomas again, with an air of finality.

"Benson, are you going to let him get away with this?" said Rigby, rushing to the gumball machine. However, the raccoon backed off rather than grabbing his boss by the arm. That's because he could see the rage building inside that glass dome of his.

"Gentlemen. I'm going to say this once," said Benson, mustering all his powers of restraint not to increase the decibel level to 70. The rest of the staff could see him tremble, but he was keeping it together. "Skips has done more for this park, for this _planet_, than _any_ of you could even _begin_ to imagine, least of all you, Rigby. So my advice is, if you feel the need to question him again, you do so from somewhere else, because you're fired. And Thomas: next time you swing a punch at one of my employees, make it someone your own size. I could do with a laugh."

The boss paced up and down. He seemed to have regained all of his composure. "So, Rigby. You want Skips to go away? You want him to go to the mountains because sometimes things might be hard if he's around?" He turned towards the raccoon and approached him deliberately. "Who's going to fix your stuff, Rigby? Who's going to do your work for you? Who's going to open your damn milk at the breakfast table?"

Rigby looked like he was about to cry, and this gave Benson pause. "Yeah, exactly. You feel bad, because Skips does a lot for you. For all of us." If anything, Rigby looked even more upset now, and Benson's guilt centers were in full swing. He reacted the best way he knew how: not by changing his approach, but by redirecting it.

"Thomas, I'm serious," said Benson, and the crew was in no doubt that he was. "I don't know how or why you thought you could go throwing punches, but if you do it again, I hope you have good health insurance." The goat nodded and blushed.

Benson nodded back. "Alright. So we're agreed. We're going to get through this together. _Aren't we?_" To a man the group spoke its assent - even Muscle Man, even Rigby. Everyone except Skips, who was silent.

"Alright. So, Thomas. Help Rigby get up."

"But-"

"_Now._"

The goat sighed, and even though the two didn't make eye contact, he hauled Rigby onto two feet, then grabbed him by the shoulders to make sure he was steady.

"Get off me, I can stand by myself," said Rigby. "I don't need anyone's help," he continued, glaring at Mordecai, who couldn't return his eye contact.

Skips broke out of his self-imposed reverie. He had a way of retreating into himself during times of external crisis and drama - something that those who knew about it envied. Back in the realm of problems and solutions, he spoke.

"Alright. Time to get to work," he said. "Rigby. What's on that paper and why'd you steal it?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Skips, I'm-" began Rigby.

"Don't," said Skips. "I don't want to hear it. We got more important things to worry about." And maybe you were right, he thought to himself. He made a note to speak to Rigby later, alone. For now, the last thing he wanted to do was undermine Benson.

"But-" said the raccoon.

"If you want to make it up to me," said Skips, taking a knee to get to Rigby's level, "just tell me the truth."

"F-fine..." said Rigby. Skips noticed that the little one had actually moved closer to him, perhaps without even meaning to. Rigby then turned around and sat, legs straight out in front of him, like a kid playing in a sandbox.

He took a deep breath, then started to speak. "I was eleven. And-"

"You looked around eight, bro," interrupted Muscle Man, before a low growl from Benson had him quickly mutter an apology and cover his mouth.

Rigby was too caught up in his own memories to even get mad. He went on, "Things weren't going well. They kept sayin' they were going to hold me back a year. And Don was doin' so well, they let him skip a grade!"

The raccoon could see it perfectly in his mind's eye. Good memories were hard to come by for Rigby, but ones like this were always just below the surface.

* * *

"Mom! Dad! I have big news!"

Rigby was sitting at the kitchen table staring vacantly at his math homework - he wasn't allowed to play until it was done - when the triumphant tones of his brother interrupted his reverie.

His dad turned around from the stove while his mother came in from the garage. "Don, what is it?" said the woman of the house.

"Remember that essay contest I entered? Well, I'm through to the grand final! The prize this year is a trip to space camp! All I need to do is write a paper on why Mars exploration is a good thing."

Rigby clenched his eyes shut.

"Space camp!" said the father. "That's brilliant, Don!"

"We know you can do it if you set your mind to it," chimed in his mom.

"Well, I already wrote it. Now I just need to hand it in."

Rigby slammed his fists down on the table. "I'm tryna work here! God! I don't care about your stupid Mars camp!"

"Rigby!" yelled his parents in unison.

"Go to hell, losers," he said, pushed back his chair, and scampered off to his shared bedroom.

There he found the familiar scent of his tear-imbued pillow, its eventually-uncomfortable warmth, and the mess he made of his bed as he kicked out his frustration with his lower paws. He had to be very careful to keep his claws in check - the last thing he wanted to do was to get in trouble for ripping the sheets, even if in reality he wanted to tear the whole room apart.

But he'd gotten pretty good at delayed gratification over the years...

"... so I waited," continued Rigby. "And a week later, on the morning of the contest, I got up real early and I... I hid the paper."

Without a pause, Benson asked, "Did he find it?"

"No. He tore the place apart looking for it," said Rigby. For the first time since he started telling the story he looked up from between his legs. "It was pretty funny, actually." He gave a sad little smile and looked back down.

"So then what happened?"

"Well, after he got done lookin' for it, he had half an hour to rewrite it. He handed it in and got a silver medal or something."

"Did he get to go to space camp?" Benson was certainly invested in the story for some reason, even if some of the other park staff had got bored and started checking their phones by this time.

"Nah, only the winner got that."

"You idiot!" yelled Benson, lunging towards Rigby. "He could have had the time of his life!"

Rigby scrambled backwards with his two upper paws, bumping into Skips, who was still crouched behind him.

"I know! But... you don't understand!"

"Oh, really?" said the boss. "You think you're the only one who had a messed-up childhood? I get it just fine. But I wasn't that much of a spiteful jerk that I had to ruin everyone else's good time!"

"Stop talking!"

Rigby leapt to his feet, but two strong arms on his shoulders stopped him before he could storm off, kick Benson, or worse.

"Rigby. It's OK."

Skips said it in that voice that, although Rigby intellectually knew it wasn't really OK, he still felt that, just maybe, it might be.

"I... I never told anyone about this. Don beat himself up about it for a while. He thought he'd left it at school or something."

"Where did you hide it, Rigby?"

"My underwear drawer."

Mordecai, who'd been listening intently the whole time, was finally moved to speak. "Wait... you didn't even wear underwear at school, dude."

"Yeah, I never wore it. That's why I knew nobody would ever look in there."

"That's pretty clever, dude," said Mordecai, smiling to his friend. And despite themselves, everyone managed a little grin at this. Everyone but Benson, at least.

The boss was still scowling at his younger employee. "Well, based on the fact that you wrecked Don's space camp trip, and Skips says there's only one way to set this right, it's time for you to go and hunt down that paper and come clean to Don."

"But-" protested the raccoon.

"And if the next word out of your mouth isn't 'alright' or one of its many variants, you're-"

"Fired. I get it."

"No, Rigby. You're even more of a little twerp than I thought you were five minutes ago."

Rigby's head drooped. Even Thomas felt a sour feeling rising in his gut from that one. Skips arguably felt it most of all.

"Benson. Stop it," said the yeti, with simple finality.

"Wh..."

"Rigby showed a lot of courage to share this. You know, he's not the only one who's done some bad things in his life. Right?"

Until then, it hadn't dawned on Benson that, if Rigby was in one of the spheres, he might be too. Oh god. The idea... it was almost too much to take. Robbed of speech, Benson just nodded and shrugged aimlessly.

"Alright. Now, Rigby... I'm gonna guess the paper's..."

"Yeah, gone. Burnt along with my underwear," he said.

"So. You're going to need to speak to Don."

"Do I have to?! I hate..." he said, but began to trail off.

From the margins, there was a small cough.

"If I may... I think there's a way that Rigby doesn't need to talk to his brother, but still make things right."

Benson recovered his voice in time to give a little, passive-aggressive sigh, and ask the not-so-burning question.

"Fine. What is it, Pops?"

The lollipop man, however, had already began on his merry way back to the house.

"Rigby, come with me!" The raccoon grasped with all four paws the chance to get away from Benson's judging eyes - not to mention those of Thomas - and ran off to the house.

Benson raised a finger in protest, but Skips shook his head. "Let 'em go. Pops is pretty good about this stuff. And if not... we'll go after them in a few minutes."

"Fine," said Benson. "But the rest of you... we got work to do. I know we need to deal with these spheres - for some reason - but we also have to keep this place running. So get back to work and we'll reconvene at quitting time."

None of the staff seemed ready for this. There were too many questions. But nobody dared say a word. After all, each was too worried about what might be revealed when their own pasts came to light.

Rigby wordlessly followed the old man upstairs and into his quarters. There Pops moved his vintage armchair over to his antique writing desk.

"Take a seat on the armrest," said Pops, "next to me," as he took his place in the desk chair.

"What? Why?"

"We're going to compose a letter to Don."

"But that's stupid!"

"No, Rigby, it's not!" said Pops, who it seemed could deploy a stern tone when it was needed the most. "You took his words away from him. The very least you can do is give them back. And besides, this means you can mail it off to him and not worry about talking to him in person."

"Ugh... I guess. But I'm not a writer, dude. I can't even spell."

"Well, that's why I'm here!" said Pops, before producing a quill and effortlessly producing 'Dear Don,' in floral italics.

"Woah! That's like, the writing on the constitution or something!"

"The art of calligraphy," sighed Pops, "is sadly not long for this world. But let's keep it going, shall we, hmm?"

"Yeah! Keep going!"

"Oh, no, Rigby! The words need to come from you. All I can do is write them down."

"Augh!" said Rigby, flopping down in the armchair. He looked at the ceiling, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the paintwork.

"Dear Don. Sorry I screwed you over. Thanks for being the worst brother ever. Sincerely something something Rigby."

"Rigby! If you don't take this seriously, I shan't write it at all!"

"Alright!" He looked down from the ceiling, eyes scanning the room for inspiration. On Pops' nightstand he saw a photograph: Pops as a young child, with his father and mother. Rigby only knew the dad as Mr. Maellard, the park's owner. The three looked so happy and carefree together in that picture. Age had robbed old man Maellard of that, thought Rigby, but Pops was just as content as he'd always been. Then again, he was lucky enough to be an online child.

"Dear Don," began Rigby, at long last. "When you were nine, and you wrote that space camp paper, you didn't lose it. I hid it. But I only did it because mom and dad kept giving you all the attention. All they ever did was yell at me. I'm sorry that I did it. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. We don't get along real well but I know you're a good guy."

He sighed for a moment then went on. "Maybe one day I'll be a good guy too. But do me a favor. Let's not talk about this. Just know that I'm sorry and let's move on and all that stuff. From Rigby."

"Just 'from Rigby', hmm?" said Pops.

"What d'you mean?"

"Don't you want to tell your brother you love him?"

"Write it in... if you want," said Rigby, arms folded.

"I think I shall." Pops finished the letter, deftly folded it in three, and carefully placed it into an eggshell-colored envelope taken from his desk drawer. He handed it to Rigby, for whom the pristine envelope paper was a new sensation.

"Got a stamp?" said Rigby.

"I think this is a letter best delivered by hand, Rigby."

The two left the house and headed for the garage. Rigby shouted over to Benson, who was by the porch working on his checklists. "We're gonna go to Don's place now," he said, brandishing the envelope.

"I hope you know what you're doing, you two," said Benson. As the two drove off, he radio'd Skips.

"Skips. They're going to give Don a letter or something. Will that even work?"

"Yeah. I figured Pops would do that. But if it'll make you feel better, head downtown and see the sphere disappear for yourself."

Benson needed a drive to clear his head, so he climbed into the cart and set off for the little crystal statue of Rigby that was no doubt causing trouble downtown.

* * *

Pops' car radio was always set to old-time jazz. Rigby hated it, but didn't want to say anything. For the raccoon it was an uneventful 20-minute ride out to Don's place. He hadn't been there in years, and wasn't even sure of the way. To his surprise, Pops knew exactly where it was. It turned out that Don had been doing the old man's taxes, free of charge, for the last three years.

Upon arrival, Pops said he'd wait in the car. Rigby tentatively walked up to the front steps and knocked the door. He'd given up hope that Don wasn't home – the gleaming, red convertible in the driveway made it clear that he was right there.

Indeed, the door opened for Rigby to be confronted with his brother's midsection. Another reminder of his superiority – he literally towered over the older brother. How he hated that feeling.

But all he could do was step backwards to avoid Don's hug, hand him the letter, and mutter, "Read it now. I'll see you later." Then he scampered off back to the car and buried himself deep in the passenger seat.

Pops watched as Don read the letter on his front doorstep. He looked up, as it he was about to walk to the car, then made eye contact with Pops. They nodded to each other in sympathy. Don went back inside, and Pops started the engine.

* * *

Benson's timing couldn't have been better. As he turned onto the sphere's block, he had to slam on the brakes as a flash of blue light filled his vision. Through narrowed eyes he saw Rigby gradually fade out of the sphere, and then for the whole entity to suddenly compress into a tiny dot before finally disappearing, like turning off an old television.

He sighed and smiled, content that things were back to normal – at least for now. That Pops and Rigby had figured it out themselves was a source of real happiness, even overshadowing the fact that there were so many spheres left to go. He pulled out his radio to tell Skips the good news, only to be interrupted by a rapping on the cart roof.

He looked up and behind him to see an angry-looking cop staring him down.

"I know that raccoon. He works for you, doesn't he? We've chased him away from more than a few dumpsters," he said.

"Uh, officer, I-"

"Save it. Grind those gears somewhere else. I don't know _what_ you clowns over at that park are up to, but you keep it off our streets, alright?"

"If I can just-"

"You can just shut the hell up before I shut you freaks down." Benson did as he was told. The cop took a quick look around him to make sure none of the more enlightened citizenry were listening. "This glowy blue nonsense has been blocking traffic for hours now. You know that, right? We thought it was just a prank at first, but that light... well, I don't know what it's all about, and I don't much care. What I _do_ know is, this is a quiet city and a nice place to live, and we're going to keep it that way. So if I see any more of these little rodents-in-ice scattered around the place, then maybe we're not going to play nice with you and the rest of the park menagerie anymore." The policeman looked pleased with himself. "Now, you can speak."

Years of effort, of bottling it up, had allowed Benson to maintain his composure, even if all he wanted to do was to reverse over the cop's foot. "Officer, I'm sorry," he said. "It's not a prank. It's something bigger than that. But it's all under control. I appreciate your patience and rest assured it won't happen again."

"You damn well better," he said, before tapping the cart with his nightstick and walking off.

Benson exhaled his tension. The cop hadn't figured out that the potholes and the spheres were connected. That meant they had time. Two on main street, and two elsewhere downtown. The rest were in the parks – those, they could deal with at leisure. But they had to get downtown cleared up before the cops figured out what was going on. One 'prank' they could get away with, but the park would be in danger if the authorities thought this would be an ongoing thing.

"Skips," said Benson into his radio. "We're clear on the Rigby situation. But gather the troops. Tonight we're all working overtime. Call me back when everyone's together."

"Right, boss."

The gumball machine checked his mirrors and drove off as safely as he could. Destination: Main Street.


	6. Chapter 6

It was just a short ride to Main Street. Benson reflected on the irony of its name. When he was a kid, it was appropriate: it had plenty of specialty stores, an old-fashioned lunch counter, lawyers' offices, accountants, you name it. Going downtown with his parents on a Saturday morning was one of the best parts of his week. It was full of people, and even though he and his family grew the occasional suspicious glance, the streets were so busy that they could blend in easily enough. The younger Benson relished the anonymity. Above all, he loved the toy store, and spent many happy hours there while his parents conducted business elsewhere.

Benson glanced sideways at the place he used to love and sighed. That very same toy store, Funnington's, was now a pawn shop with bars across the window and an unfriendly-looking security guard at the door. It could be worse, Benson thought, as he sped towards the two potholes, side-by-side. Most of the other buildings were boarded up now, all his youthful haunts replaced by nothing, or at least nothing good. The businesses and the customers had mainly fled to the suburbs. And there were no more crowds. With everyone so spread out, a gumball machine in a golf cart was sure to attract unwanted attention.

Still, Benson parked the cart in front of a truck making deliveries at a liquor store, to lessen the chance that someone would see it. He strode purposefully towards the two potholes, both next to each other, and exhaled.

"Alright. Let's see if this day can possibly get any worse," he muttered to himself.

He rested his hand against the first sphere. Nothing. Excellent - he knew it wasn't about him. One down, one to go.

"Knowing my luck," he said, louder this time, as he tentatively reached out to the second one.

He knew it. That familiar, screeching whine, that white light, and then a younger version of himself looking back at him from that deep, blue sphere.

And it was a version of himself that he didn't like. Eyes narrowed and mouth half-open in harsh laughter. He was pointing at something. Or someone.

"Oh, lord," he said. "Not her." He looked from side to side. The security guard at the pawn shop had gone inside, and there was nobody else around. Good. He had time to confront this particular issue before anyone else showed up.

* * *

While Benson stood alone downtown, Yates, Muscle Man and Fives were commiserating their bad luck. They'd separated from the others to grab a well-deserved second lunch.

"This S is BS, bros!" said Mitch. "I wanted to watch the UFC tonight! And now we're stuck here workin'!"

It took a lot for Muscle Man to resent work. It was, in truth, one of the things he lived for. That and his beloved Starla. But he sometimes valued his own time, too, especially if there was fighting and wings involved.

"Hell, maybe you still can," said Yates hopefully. "Benson's got a bee in his bonnet about the ones downtown, sure, but we can take our time with the ones here in the park. So... if downtown ain't an issue..."

"Yeah," piped up Fives. "Let's go downtown and help."

"Hmm... Benson would be hella psyched if we took some initiative," agreed Muscle Man, rubbing his chin with earnest consideration. "Alright, dudes! Into the cart!"

"Hell yeah!" said Yates. "He'll be so glad if we show up as a surprise!"

Yates dove eagerly into the shotgun position, Fives hovering between him and Muscle Man as the latter fired up the little engine and sped towards the city.

* * *

"Are you feeling better now, Rigby?" said Pops as the car pulled into the park house garage. He'd given the raccoon the journey's duration to pull himself together, but he didn't want to let him run off without making sure he was alright.

"I guess so," said Rigby. "Man... I didn't think I'd feel so bad about the whole space camp thing. I hadn't even thought about it for years."

"I don't know much about these spheres," said Pops, "but I like to think that everything happens for a reason." He turned the ignition off - the old-time jazz and the old engine fell silent. "Perhaps they are trying to teach us that it's best to confront the past and learn from it."

"That's crazy, Pops! The past's in the past. It's super-lame. I mean, we're driving all over town doing all this crazy stuff and... it sucks, dude!"

Pops smiled sympathetically. "But doesn't it feel good to know that you've been honest with your brother?"

"No. It feels like ass."

"Well, I hope you change your mind, Rigby. Because if everything happens for a reason, that doesn't mean it's not up to us to learn from it."

"Whatevs. I'm going to find Mordecai." Rigby scampered out of the garage and into a golf cart outside. Pops shook his head and went inside to the kitchen phone.

* * *

Skips, Mordecai and Thomas, meanwhile, were already heading downtown, too, albeit on foot. Skips was far enough ahead of the other two that they had to raise their voices to talk to him. Skips was less than subtle about this, adjusting his pace to keep his distance, and that did not go unnoticed by the blue jay or the goat.

"This is F'd up," said Thomas.

"You're telling me," said Mordecai. "Unpaid overtime is the worst. I wanted to ask Margaret to go see Hearts in Syrup tonight! I mean, I was probably going to ask her, anyway. Or just go and see it myself."

Thomas looked at Mordecai askance. "I'm not talking about the overtime. I'm talking about these weird spheres and their crazy life lessons and flashbacks."

"Oh, those things," said Mordecai. "Yeah, I guess they're a little weird. But when you've worked at the park as long as I have, you get used to it."

"How long have you worked there?"

"Four seasons."

"... seasons?"

"Yeah. I started last summer and now it's the end of spring. Four seasons."

"Oh. Makes sense."

The two made small talk the rest of the way. In truth, Thomas wanted to know more about the current predicament, but Mordecai clearly wasn't the one to ask.

"Hearts in Syrup, huh?" said Thomas with a small smile.

"I'll have you know it's been acclaimed by several websites as the most heartwarming romantic comedy of the year," said Mordecai defensively.

"I just didn't know romance was your thing," said Thomas, before immediately regretting it and freezing up a little.

Mordecai picked up on that. "Well... it is. Kinda. But who knows what's going to happen? One thing I do know is that it's hard as hell to find a happy ending in real life."

Skips, meanwhile, was listening over his shoulders. He rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth as he turned onto main street.

* * *

Benson was sitting on the curb, rubbing his forehead with his phone in his hands.

"I understand that, Geoffrey," he groaned. "But this is a legitimate emergency. She will understand."

Something procedural and bureaucratic was spat back down the line to him by the secretary.

"I'm not going to waste her time! How many times have I phoned her at work in the last ten years? Once! Just put me through!"

Seeing his sister Noette at Thanksgiving or family funerals was bad enough, but calling her at work was something else. As a partner at Stern & Steely Legal, she kept herself busy nine to five, and a good bit beyond, too. That meant she had no time for...

"... unwelcome interruptions," heard Benson, muffled at the other end of the line, in Noette's voice. Benson heard the phone being lifted to the side of her head, and her clearing her throat. "Noette Price speaking, please cite your case reference number."

"I don't have a reference number, Noette," he said. "It's Benson."

"Yes, I know. Apologies. It's habit. What do you want?" she said. Every word in clipped, neutral tones. Benson hated it. He hated to impose on her, but he hated even more that he was so clearly yet another obstacle in her day-to-day quest for riches, perfection, and legal fame.

But he couldn't exactly blame her.

"Noette..." he said. "Do you remember Funnington's?"

"Yes. I handled their foreclosure in 2005. Nasty bit of business, it was. Are you calling with regards to a claim? Because that ship has well and truly sailed."

"No... Noette, just listen for a minute."

"Alright, Benson," she said, hoisting her high-heeled feet onto her desk. "Since you told Geoffrey this couldn't wait, I'll do you better. I'll give you five minutes. That's not something I'd afford most of my clients. Go."

Benson pictured his sister in her mahogany-and-dark-carpeted office, the world at her fingertips, half-listening to what he was about to say. On the one hand, he resented how clearly and easily she could dismiss him. On the other, he looked up to her. To come from where they had and still end up such a professional success? That was pretty amazing.

And, he thought to himself, maybe she'd like to hear that.

"At Funnington's, when we were little kids... I used to join the others in picking on you," said Benson neutrally. He was surprised at how easily he was keeping his composure, given that he hardly ever thought about it but felt awful when he did.

They could both see it in their mind's eye. The little human children, and the occasional animal, gathered around Benson and Noette as they played with that week's latest toy.

_Hey! Tin cans can't play with that! They'll ruin it!  
Yeah! Let go! Give it to us!  
Hey, I can play with it, guys! Look! I'm just like you! It's tin girls who are icky!  
Benson! We're not tins!  
Haha, what kind of name is Benson?  
Hey, it's better than __**NOETTE!  
**__Haw haw! Hey, Noette, stay still, I'm going to go and find a can opener!  
Good one!  
Shut up, Benson!  
Okay.  
Hey, Benson, help me lift this toolbox. I got a surprise for Noette.  
Okay!_

"Mmhmm," she said. "Classic case of the bullied becoming the bully."

"You remember?"

"It's hard to forget your own brother pushing you into the ball pool over and over again, Benson," she said, without the slightest hint of emotion. Benson winced. He'd forgotten that particular episode. "Lucky for you, I liked the ball pool."

"You don't have to sugar coat it, Noette. I'm calling to apologize."

"Oh, I have no intention of sugar coating it, brother. You made me miserable on those days. It only happened sometimes, of course, but it was often enough that Funnington's was a place I grew to dread. Truth be told, I relished getting that dusty old irrelevance closed down."

"But it brought joy to so many people..."

"And misery to me," she replied evenly. "Besides, if old man Funnington couldn't keep up on the rent, the bank had a right to its property. At least, that's what we told the judge."

Benson felt worse now than he did just a few minutes ago. At first he felt bad because he'd bullied his sister. But now he set in motion a chain of events that led to one of the few downtown businesses that lived into the 2000s being shut down.

"You mean..."

"Relax, Benson," said Noette. "I didn't take the case because of our childhood. You know I'm a professional. Let's just say it was a nice bonus."

"I... I'm sorry, Noette," said Benson, unsure of what else to say. "When those kids started making fun of you I shouldn't have taken their side."

"You had to look out for yourself, Benson," she said. He could swear there was a hint of understanding in her voice. "After all, you were a boy, and they had no qualms about beating you. With me, it was just words. Oh, and the occasional shove into the ball pool."

"But words can hurt just as badly..."

"Yes, Benson. I know. We grew up together, did we not?"

"Yeah..."

"Listen. I forgive you. I know you aren't like that anymore. And... well, perhaps having to grow up fast made me who I am today. A success."

Benson glanced over at his golf cart and the ridiculous sphere in the middle of the road. If he had to describe himself and his life, the noun he'd pick would share nothing with success except starting with the letter S.

"So... we're cool?"

"Inasmuch as two people with nothing in common except a head full of gumballs can be cool, yes, we are, as the kids are saying these days, cool."

"Okay." He pictured Noette again, with her odd-shaped head, her diminutive body, and her single-minded determination. He admired her and resented her in equal measure.

There was a little sigh from the other end of the line. "Thank you, Benson," said Noette, with a softened voice. "This actually does mean a lot to me. I look forward to seeing you this Thanksgiving. Truth be told, there's something I like about you, big brother. You like to kick back during the holidays." Then a click, and the line went dead.

The familiar flash of light returned and the sphere disappeared. Good. He'd slain that particular demon without being caught. And... well, the end of the call was weird. Benson sighed, visibly relaxing at what had happened.

He almost leapt out of his frame, however, when he felt a furry hand on his shoulder. He knew right away who it was.

"Nice going, boss," said Skips.

"How long have you been there," sighed Benson.

"Long enough. But don't worry. Mordecai and Thomas were out of range."

"Good."

"Not sure about those three, though," said Skips, pointing across the road.

Benson groaned. Yates, Fives and Mitch were standing there, looking at their boss with a mix of pity and confusion.

"Sorry about the ball pool thing," hollered Yates. "Glad you got that figured out!" The three must have been there the whole time, listening, but Benson was so wrapped up in his phone call that he never noticed.

"Great," said Benson. "Rigby and Pops are still back at the house, I guess?"

"Yep," said Skips, a little distracted as he looked back at Mordecai and Thomas. He shouted back to the pair of them. "Hey! You two! You know what to do."

They ran towards Skips to confirm. "It's not going to be me, right?" said Thomas. "I mean, I only just started working here, and..."

Skips cut him off. "Thomas, what makes you think I know who it's going to be? Time's running out. Do what you have to do."

Mordecai and Thomas looked at each other and shrugged. They jogged out to the middle of the street and placed their hands on the one remaining sphere.

Then there was a wail, a flash of light, and a new challenge.


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas had seen the internet abbreviation 'rofl' plenty of times, but he'd never seen it in action until now. On one side of the street, Muscle Man was supine with mirth; right next to him, Mordecai was laughing goofily. Even Skips managed a wry smile.

"It's not funny, you guys!" protested Thomas, but deep down he knew that it was. To people who weren't him.

Suspended in the sphere was a glowing image of him with his head stuck in stair railings. He had a look of intense panic on his face, and a 'KICK ME' sign stuck to his butt.

Rigby, by this time, had pulled up in the cart, immediately joining Muscle Man in laughter.

"Alright, alright," said Mordecai, sighing and wiping his eye. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Seriously. Sorry about that. But... your face! Your ass!" He was helpless with laughter again.

"It's just like Christmas, bro!" said Muscle Man. "We should have stuck a sign to you when you got your head stuck on the stairs!"

Thomas groaned and sat down on the ground next to the sphere.

"Okay. Look. I know how this crap works now, so I'll just get it over with and tell you what happened," he said.

"You don't need to do that," interrupted Skips. "If you confront it, it will disappear. Nobody needs to know."

"Nah. The rest of you get to talk about your pasts. Now it's my turn."

"Fine. But first, get off the street," said Benson, before his phone rang. The gumball machine reached to shut it off, but after seeing it was from Pops, decided to excuse himself and answer it.

Thomas watched his boss leave. He then sighed, looked at the ground, and began to speak.

* * *

Pops listened, brow furrowed, down the receiver.

"I'm fine," said Benson to the older man. "Just... yeah. Alright. We'll do it. Talking. Fine."

Pops had offered to talk through what had happened with Benson. He was amazed that the manager had agreed to it.

"It's so wonderful that you are finally opening up, Benson," said Pops.

The younger one rolled his eyes. "Just... don't tell anyone, okay? I don't want people thinking that I'm... y'know."

Pops knew. He was, however, fully in disagreement with Benson. He didn't think him weak at all. In fact he knew that behind Benson's anger and frustration lay an admirable resolve. But to point that out would only have prompted in Benson a flurry of mitigation and self-doubt. Such is the curse of low self-esteem.

But Pops didn't say anything. "Then it's settled. We'll convene in your office shortly."

"What, now? But Thomas just-"

"As your manager, I think it's best that we confront this issue now," said Pops. "I expect to see you shortly."

Benson, truth be told, was glad of the chance of a break. He shouted over to Skips that he was in charge, climbed into a cart, and headed for the park.

* * *

"So, I got picked on a lot at school, right?" said Thomas.

"Yeah, can't imagine why," said Rigby, earning himself a firm punch in the arm from Mordecai.

If Thomas even heard this exchange, he chose not to acknowledge it. He seemed to be in a world of his own, still staring at the sidewalk, tapping one foot from side to side.

"Yeah... it wasn't a happy time for me, my junior year. So eventually..." Thomas sighed, as if he couldn't go on.

"Eventually...?" said Skips.

"Eventually I decided to drop out," said Thomas, at last.

And there was silence. There was even a little gust of wind and the rustle of a few leaves.

"... that's it?" said Rigby. "Dude, so did I! Who cares?"

"Yeah, bro! We don't need no ed-u-cat-ion!" added Muscle Man.

"You guys, there's got to be more to it than that," said High-Five Ghost. He didn't speak much, so when he did, people tended to listen. In fact, all eyes were on him now. This turned him back to self-conscious silence, which Skips jumped in to fill.

"Fives is right, guys. Thomas, if talking about it is your choice, you need to be honest."

"I know, I know," he said. "Look... it's probably best if I show you." He pulled out his trusty cellphone and loaded up what looked to be a local news site from another county nearby. A quick text in the search bar later, and he passed his phone around. Rigby snatched it eagerly.

"Local student... saved from bomb... trad-edgy," said Rigby, tracing his finger under each word. "Dude, you lit up your school!?"

"Harsh, bro," said Muscle Man, shaking his head. Even Mordecai had backed away slightly.

"No, guys! Rigby, read the rest."

"Give me that," said Mordecai, snatching the phone from his friend. He scanned the page quickly, then handed the phone back to Thomas.

"Wow, dude," he said. "But I don't get it. Why's this such a bad thing?"

Thomas, for the first time, looked up.

"Alright," he said. "Let me put it another way..."

* * *

Benson pulled up at the park house in decent spirits. But it seemed something was up. Silhouetted against the thin curtains in the topmost window was Pops' unmistakable head. And his arms. He seemed to be unpacking a box.

Benson made his way upstairs, and in doing so bumped into Pops, who was marching towards Benson's office with his arms full of what looked to be old binders and folders.

"What's all this junk, Pops? What are you taking to my office!?"

"These? Oh," said Pops, carrying them into the room. He carelessly dropped them all over the desk, knocking one of Benson's several neat piles of paper to the side. Benson gritted his teeth as he watched.

"These are... well, they're memories. And I think they might be able to help us."

* * *

A lot had changed for Thomas in the four years since, but the memories were all too fresh. He was disillusioned, not quite a loner but certainly feeling alone. His rage and angst were as cliched as his clothes. There was little to separate him from millions of other disaffected, middle-class youths across the country. Well, little except a pair of horns and a voice that refused to fully break, even at 17.

At first he took the bullying with stoic resignation. But he could only keep that up for so long. Walks home became stomps; doors were slammed, not closed; closing was for curtains. No light got in; only darkness came out.

His parents were almost relieved when he announced his intention to quit school without finishing. He'd go to community college, he said. He'd get his GED, he said. He said it because they made it a condition of his dropping out, sure, but he said it. That was enough for them.

He'd had enough, after all, and he'd decided to get his own back.

He got up early on the day of his planned withdrawal from school. Very early. The sun was still down, and nobody was at school yet. So nobody saw him when he went to the payphone by the parking lot. Nobody heard him insert the quarters, press the buttons, breathe deeply into the receiver. Nobody heard him click on his voice modifier, and nobody heard the phone ring in the school office. Nobody heard the answering machine's chirpy greeting or its discordant beep.

And until 7:00am, when the secretary clocked in, nobody heard his message.

"There's a bomb in your school set for 7:30am. You have thirty minutes to get everyone out. This is your final warning!"

Thomas was in a kind of daze after his call - one that persisted well into his arrival at school. He showed up with the first lot of students on the bus, just before 7, and waited quietly with them outside until the custodian let them in.

Unfortunately for him, he'd picked a Friday to do this - a Friday when the basketball team had a state championship game. That meant they were at school early for final practice before getting the bus to the capital. And that meant they were tired, irritable, and looking for a distraction.

As Thomas lurked around the secretary's office, waiting for the telltale scream, two of his tormentors saw him.

"Hey, Tommy!" said one, a smirking giraffe called Jason, slapping him on the back a little too firmly to be considered friendly.

"Leave me alone," said the goat through gritted teeth.

His companion, a perma-raging point guard rhino who went by the nom de guerre of Tiny, made to punch him, but was interrupted by a whistle from the other end of the hall. It was Coach Leo.

"You three! Get down here now!" he said. "Practice starts in five minutes sharp!"

"This ain't over," grunted Tiny, as he and Jason made their way down the hall.

"I said the three of you! Get moving or you're going to the principal's office!"

Leo's eyesight wasn't the best, it seemed. Thomas had nothing to do with the basketball team. But he weighed up his options. A teacher had seen him lurking by the office now. If he stood his ground, they'd be suspicious when the threat came in. So with a gulp he headed down the hall, footsteps echoing uncomfortably.

Leo disappeared back into the locker room; the second he did so, Tiny and Jason turned on their heels and headed for Thomas.

With an alarmed squeak, he ducked into the first door to his right - the fire escape.

The door at the foot of the steps was locked.

Tiny and Jason closed the door behind them.

* * *

Normally Benson was pleased if he could make it to 10am without rubbing his brow in pain or frustration. Here it was the afternoon and he'd already succumbed to this dozens of times.

"Memories, Pops? I thought we were going to talk about..."

Me, was what Benson was going to say. But after thinking about it, he trailed off. He agreed to it last night for... well, he wasn't sure what reason, exactly. But suddenly all he wanted to do was sit in his office - alone - sip coffee, fill in paperwork, and listen to the clock ticking like a reliable heartbeat until it was time to go home.

No such luck, he thought, as Pops began to rummage through the folders.

He was pulling out photographs and newspaper cuttings. A lot of newspaper cuttings. And, finally, with a triumphant 'ah!', what looked to be an ancient contract or deed, complete with wax seal and ribbon.

"Benson! Come and see!"

The gumball machine had to admit, this was curious. He took a seat at the wrong side of his desk and hoped that Pops could find it in himself to explain this sensibly.

"What's all this about?"

"It's about the nasty business with the spheres, of course!"

Benson was skeptical. What would Pops know about these things? He wished Skips was here to set the record straight - for some reason, Skips was always good for that - but he wouldn't inflict on him this early a start.

So, it was up to him, alone, to listen.

It was usually up to him, alone.

* * *

"Why're you following us?" sneered Tiny.

"Yeah, jerkoff," added Jason, as he grabbed Thomas' horns.

"Let's store you somewhere you won't bother us," laughed Tiny as he wedged Thomas' head between the railings of the stairs.

"Guys... no..." protested Thomas.

"Shut up!" said Jason, landing a punt on Thomas' backside.

Tiny artlessly scrawled 'KICK ME' on a piece of paper, stuck it to Thomas back, and walked up the stairs.

"Did you see that, Jason? It says kick me!"

"Yeah, I see it," said the giraffe, following Jason up the stairs with a laugh. He stopped on the last step, deep in thought. "Wait a minute. Nobody ever comes in here. Who's going to kick him, you idiot?"

"I... I... shut up! We'll be back for you after practice, Thomas," he said, with Jason following behind as they closed the door.

This was bad enough, thought Thomas, but any minute now the secretary was going to answer the bomb threat. And... and... oh god.

His back pocket.

His cell phone.

It still has the school's number on it.

He was smart enough not to call in the threat from his own number - obviously. But, god dammit, how could he be so stupid? He'd saved the number on his cell so he didn't forget it on the way to the payphone. And he hadn't deleted it!

All it'd take is for his phone to fall out of his pocket. For whoever came to help him to take it. For... oh god. He was going to be caught for sure.

* * *

"But in this photo you're all smiling and stuff," said Rigby, grabbing in vain for the phone held in his friend's hands.

"Yeah. They didn't get my phone. One of the bomb squad searched the fire escape and found me there. He got me out in like, a minute." Thomas laughed darkly. "I probably could have made it if I'd turned my head a bit."

"So why's this a problem? Nobody got hurt, right?"

"Yeah, well... they made me tell them who'd locked me in there. I told them, because, well, screw those guys. But..."

"But what?" said Skips.

"Click the related story," he said, pointing to his phone. Mordecai did so.

"Area students implicated in bomb, murder plot," said Mordecai. There were two mugshots: Tiny and Jason.

"Yeah. As soon as I said they'd locked me in there, the police called them in, and they were so on edge about this bomb threat, I guess interrogations got a little heated."

"It says here at the end they weren't actually charged with anything," said Mordecai, half-listening and half-reading. He winced as he got to the article's comments section.

"Yeah, but... you search for these guys online, that's the first thing you see. They both lost their scholarships over this."

"Man, screw those jerks!" said Muscle Man. "They got what they deserved."

"I'm inclined to agree with Mitch here," said Yates, stubbing out a cigarette on a wall. "You made a mistake, no doubtin' that, but those dumbasses didn't need to confess to the sheriff."

Skips listened to the back-and-forth between the group for a while before unleashing a roar.

"Quiet!"

His will was done.

"Thomas. A bomb threat?! What on earth were you thinking?"

"I know, I know," he said. "I was stupid. There was no bomb, obviously. I just wanted to scare everyone. I wanted them to be as scared of school as I was."

"Yeah, and you wrecked two kids' lives. Nice going."

"I know! So... I want to fix it."

Skips sighed.

"I think I know what to do," said the yeti.


End file.
